Chapter 2 Still Under the Violet Sky

The last of the morning bread had just come out of the ovens when the window fogged over, and the bakery's front door creaked open again. This time it was Mrs. Winlow, wrapped in her plum colored shawl and carrying three letters in one hand and a wicker basket in the other. She walked like someone who believed the floor ought to be grateful to touch her shoes.

Lena gave Miriam a look that said brace yourself and went to fuss with the croissants.

"Miriam dear," Mrs. Winlow sang, stepping carefully around a small puddle by the doorway. "I saw that dreadful mason boy throw stones at the chapel bell this morning. With his left hand, no less. You know what they say about left handedness."

"No, but I'm sure you'll remind me," Miriam murmured with a smile too polite to be honest.

Mrs. Winlow tapped the counter with one of her letters. "It means he's prone to bad luck, loose morals, and over salting his food. It's been studied. In France."

"That's terrible," Thom whispered behind the shelves, "I salt everything."

She glanced at him, but allowed her attention to drift. "And what of the mayor? I've not seen him since the fair, and the town council's postponed the green space meeting again. We were promised a fountain this year."

"No one asked for a fountain," Lena said under her breath.

Miriam stepped in. "He's likely busy with the estate paperwork. Since his uncle passed, he's inherited the whole side of Crowswell Hill."

"Hmph," Mrs. Winlow said, lifting her chin. "Wealth makes people disappear. Trust me, I've seen it twice."

She didn't elaborate.

After she left with a half dozen rolls, three complaints, and a mystery about the magistrate's niece Lena slumped onto the flour sack bench beneath the window.

"I swear, if she ever says something nice, I'll choke on it."

"She said I had good posture once," Miriam offered

"That's worse."

They laughed, softly. Thom, pretending not to listen, hummed a little song that sounded vaguely like something he'd heard at the Harvest Ball. Miriam watched the condensation bead down the window and let her gaze drift beyond, to where the sea line faded into sky.

Around midday, after the rush had trickled off, Miriam took a basket of stale ends and broken crusts and made her way toward the back alley. She did this every Tuesday whether or not the birds were waiting.

The alley was quiet. Distant sounds of hammers echoed from the south road, where the carpenter's boys were trying to repair the collapsed railing outside Miss Everley's boarding house. Rumor had it that someone had leaned too heavily on it during a late night conversation, though no one had confirmed who.

Near the far end of the lane, by the side wall where old bricks met the ivy, the ginger cat was waiting. Not hers though it came often enough to be mistaken for so. It meowed softly, blinking with slow confidence.

"There you are," Miriam said, breaking a piece of rye. "You'd better not be one of the Runnel escapees."

The cat ignored her in favor of the warmest piece of crust.

As she crouched, she heard it: the faint clink of glass again. Not from the satchel this time, but above on the second story of the building behind the alley. The open shutters stirred in the breeze, and Elias stood there with a half empty bottle of something golden, leaning on the windowsill with a look that wasn't quite amusement, but wasn't distant either.

"You feed everyone in this town?" he asked.

"Just the polite ones."

He raised his bottle. "Cheers, then."

Before she could reply, a sharp whistle cut the air. Across the alley, Jonah an older man with a missing finger and a patchwork vest was struggling with a sack of grain that had split at the seam. His curses were florid but strangely poetic.

"Better help him," Elias said, nodding down. "He'll fall over next and take the street with him."

Miriam rose and crossed over without another glance, brushing her hands on her apron. She helped Jonah hoist the torn sack into a borrowed cart, both of them grunting under the weight.

"Damn stitching's bad luck," Jonah muttered. "Made by that new girl at the tannery. I told them don't let beauty handle the canvas.

"She's not the one who dropped it," Miriam said, tightening the knot. "Be kind."

He grumbled, but nodded.

Later that afternoon, with the sun drooping behind the bell tower, she finally walked back toward the chapel. Not for anything urgent just habit. The stone path was cracked but familiar, and the overgrown garden hummed with bees. She liked this hour, when the world slowed to the rhythm of old footsteps.

Inside, the air smelled like old candles and lavender polish. A figure moved near the altar Father Linley, brushing dust from the kneelers. He was shorter than expected for someone so loud at weddings.

"Ah, Miss Fairmoor," he called out without looking up. "Checking if the pews still creak?"

"I'm worried they'll stop one day. That'll be the sign of real trouble."

He chuckled, then paused. "Would you believe the stained glass flickered last night?"

She blinked. "Lightning?"

"No storm. No candles either. Just something odd."

She didn't reply.

Instead, her gaze drifted to the third panel the one no one ever seemed to clean, depicting a woman in a red cloak, standing between two cypress trees. Miriam had always wondered why she didn't have a halo like the rest.

Outside, in the slowly chilling air, Elias passed the chapel with his coat pulled tight. He paused, glanced up at the steeple, and for the first time in weeks, looked unsure.

In the distance, gulls screamed like warnings.

But Denbridge was not a town for rushing.

And whatever was coming, it would arrive with quiet steps, as everything in Denbridge always did.